America's Justice League
by SwagRaptorJones
Summary: No Superheroes, no aliens, no gods, no advanced science. The DC Universe without superpowers. What becomes of Superman? Batman? The Flash? Green Lantern? The Justice League?
1. The Superman

By day a sales consultant, at night I'm a "boxer" in the upcoming circuit. Well, "boxer" is what I declare for my taxes. They call me the Superman because I'm the strongest fighter known to the city. I've got a match tonight with an up and coming fighter who calls himself "Zed-Odd."

I pack up my stuff from the day job and change into my performance clothes. An undershirt with my logo imprinted on it: a bright red and yellow "S" against the dark blue of the muscle shirt. On top of that, I wear a hoodie embroidered with the same logo. It's a lighter blue, and the red hood compliments the rest of it. I stick with the office appropriate jeans.

Once I'm at the arena, I drape the hood atop my head. I overhear the announcer talking to my opponent. Something about his name not translating well to the American audience.

"Ladies and gentlemen, tonight we have a special match up. Club favorite," he speaks almost in a falsetto for this "the SUPERNAN against Zod!"

It's a sleazy club, but it pays well. I'm hoping on leaving that shitty day job, anyhow. The patrons seemed rather interested in the fight. As I step into the ring, I role up my sleeves and unzip the sweatshirt. It displays the logo and my muscles. The act of showmanship excites the crowd. Zod steps in on the other side. I take a sideways stance so I can favor punching with my left. The announcer calls the fight and I start by delivering basic jabs to his face.  
"Zod, eh? What's that for?" I ask. He doesn't say but he gives me a cheeky "fuck you."

I back him into a corner, delivering a strong blow to the left side of his face. He's stunned. I then roll the hood off along with the top of the jacket to gloat. The crowd continues to cheer.

Rolling my shoulders forward, hoodie falls into place. I continue a vicious assault. He eventually wises up and stands more guard to block my left hooks. While he continues to hide, I step back and jump from side to side, keeping my heart rate up while insulting his cowardice. His guard goes down briefly. So, I throw a right jab square in his nose. He winces in pain as I pull my fist away. I'm surprised he's still standing after that, the usual fighters fall at the first. I go back to showboating.

"I'm the Superman! The Man of Steel! Undefeated for a _reason!_ "

Once he's returned to his feet, I realize he's more concerned for his current state of consciousness rather than victory. I jump to get leverage over his defense and swing a right hook straight into the side of his skull. Like a child with a pillow, he hides his head in his arms. He keeps blocking so I duck down and uppercut. That was almost the end of him.

To draw in the crowds, the owner of the club likes giving personas and trademark aspects to the fighters. Besides being the best, mine is a steel hammer. I turn to the side, and an assistant hands me my weapon of choice. The hammer's head is facing the opposite direction of Zod. I toss it into the air to flick it around. Using the momentum of the throw, I drive the hammer into his shoulder blade. There's a reason they call me the "Man of Steel."  
Following the fight, Jimmy throws me my water. After zipping up my coat and rolling the sleeves back down, I pull down the hood, pop open the bottle, and drink furiously.

"Good fight, Kal-El."  
"You know I hate that nickname, right, Jimmy?"  
"Would I use it if you didn't?" he says with a distinct air of arrogance.  
Jimmy was a friend I've had since high school. We sat next to each other in Spanish, which he miserably failed at. He somehow mistook my name, Clark, for Calvin. Even worse, he shortened it to "Kal" and put "El" at the back of it.

"Still, you should at least make it proper Spanish," I tell him.

"But Kal-El has a better ring than El Kal." He rebuts, looking at me almost too seriously.

"I suppose you're right," I confess, confirming his poorly crafted nickname. "I've got to go, take care, Olsen," I tell him as I wipe some sweat while walking out.

"You know it, Superman!" he shouts.

Next, I must see my therapist. Something about narcissism and denial. Court mandated. I walk into the office and I become immediately distraught. Something about the atmosphere is off-putting. I don't usually feel like I'm at home, but this place amplifies that. I find the receptionist off at a small desk to the left.

"I'm here to see the doctor," I inform the man.

"Appointment? Mr…?" he questions.

"Kent."He types away.

"You're late. Right this way. Leave your jacket out here," he glares at me intensely. I strip down to the undershirt and he rolls his eyes. I draw in the stares from some of the other patients, which was nice.

Once I've reached the room, I'm surprised by how it doesn't appear to be a typical office. Barely any books, no couch I can lie down on and cry. After checking my surroundings, the doctor greets me.

"Hello, Mr. Kent. I'm Dr. Lane, please have a set," she motions to a chair on the opposite side of the desk. Before I take my seat, I notice her giving me the onceover, rightfully so. I pull the chair back and take a seat, crossing my legs to seem more professional.

"So," she starts, "this is your first of at least five court mandated sessions," I give her a smirk as she begins. She's surprisingly attractive, long black hair and blue eyes, similar to the typical broad back home.

"I'd like to begin with the reason you've been sent here. You have a history of fighting. Is that correct?" She leans forward while checking her clipboard, nodding in my direction.

"Enough to make some money off of it," I smirk again. I uncross my legs, spread out, and place my free arms over the back of the second chair. She notices this and jots something down.

"And you fight because you find yourself feeling superior to others?" She's now leaned back.

"Well of course I do," I stand out of the chair and flex. "I'm the bloody Superman!" I intentionally pull the chair around to sit backwards, it's not comfortable but it looks intimidating. She writes for awhile before continuing.

"Superman?" she questions, her pen tapping into her desk as she awaits a response.

"You obviously don't have much of a night life, do you?" I tease. She seems upset, losing the generic doctor smile for neutral look. "Look," I continue, "I'd be more than happy to show you tomorrow if you'd be interested." I extend my arm over her desk with a most charming smile. She pulls her whole body back.

"I'm afraid not," she wheels the chair back to the desk. I flip the chair back around, slouch, and cross my arms.

"Let's start with the root of this, then? What's was your relationship with your parents?" She prepares another page of notes.

"Which ones?" I ask with an edge in my voice. She looks over the initial papers a bit more.

"Let's start with your birth paren-" before she finishes I cut her off, "Dead," I start, more saddened than I thought I would be.

"Could you at least tell me what you know?" She inquires. I don't like talking about this.

"Well," I ease up on the defensiveness, "they were both English and put me up for adoption before I could remember anything about them. You'd be surprised how hard it is to find information on people with 'Krypton' for a last name." I look down to the floor.

"I'm sorry for your loss," she tells me with a generic tone. "And your adoptive family?"

"Called me 'the Last Son of Krypton.' Supportive." I'm beginning to trust her, but probably not for the right reasons, "Fostered the idea of hope and greatness in me." Feeling vulnerable, I look away again.

"So you're parents, the Kents, I presume, were caring then?" I look back up to her.

"Very," I tell her.

"So, then. Where do you think you're narcissism comes from?" Her pen tapping amplifies. It's beginning to be an annoyance. I roll my head around shoulders to get out a few cracks. I brush my hand against my nose, not sure of what to say.

"Rejection, I guess. No girl in high school wanted the pale, scrawny, British kid. After school, there was no way my parents could afford college on a famer's salary. So instead of college, I dedicated myself to this." I wave my hands around my midsection, presenting the muscle. She giggles.

"But you're so tanned!" she exclaims, her voice somewhere between sarcasm and compassion. Dr. Lane seems to understand my dilemma. She's now a tad flirtatious.

"I spent a lot of time working outside." I smile at her and laugh. I look up to the clock and see that time is out.

"Well, Mr. Kent, it was a pleasure meeting you. Try not to be late next time. And Clark," she says shaking my hand and turning to see me out the door, "I'd like to see one of these fights." She stretches out her palm. I rummage around my pockets until I find a wrinkled business card for the club. I hand it to her.

"Metropolis!" She exclaims, "how nice."

I roll my eyes at her comment. Leaving the office, I grab my coat while facing more glares from the receptionist. I go back home to enjoy the weekend. Lots of exercise and practice fighting. I keep a crate in the corner of my apartment with boxing equipment. Why I even own a set of gloves is question I can't answer. The following day, I go to Metropolis to scout the competition. Over to the left near the bar is Zod. He's rolling his shoulder, whimpering as he sees me. He talks to the patrons about how illegal fighting was easier in England.

"Hello, Zod!" I call out. "I think I hurt my shoulder, too, kicking your ass so hard," I tease while mimicking his shoulder motions. I receive glares while he tightens the grip on his drink. The announcer begins to call the next matchup.

"We are introducing a new fighter today! He's unofficially named as of now, but he'll 'put you in the crypt tonight,' the Crypt Keeper!" He yells out. I think to myself how dumb of a name that is. I swivel around in the stool, inattentive of the next fighter. Surprisingly large, the Crypt Keeper destroys his opponent to my dismay. He's dyed his hair green, possibly to inform a stage character later. He showboats like I do, waving his arms in the air, calling out to the audience. With his adversary on the ground, Crypt Keeper bellows his catch phrase. I'm pretty sure "I'll send you to the crypt tonight" may have been literal. The Keeper does a TV worthy finisher, seeming to seriously injure the other bloke.

 _Unfucking believable,_ I think to myself. Some assistants come out to help the other guy clean himself up, or send him to the hospital. My Boss comes over.

"Hey, Superman!" he starts, "just the man I wanted to see."

Crossing my arms against my chest, I prepare for his next demand.  
"I see you're acquainted with our newest addition," he nudges in my direction, nodding at the Crypt Keeper. Taken aback, I let out a sigh. This old fuck looks like he should run a dying business, not an illegal fighting arena. He extends his arm and I shake it, making sure to give a hard squeeze. He pulls back, rubbing his hand.

"Look," he begins sheepishly, "you're going up against that Crypt Keeper on Wednesday. It'll probably be the biggest event of the year, so look your best. Wash the damn jacket and do something with that hair, that curl looks ridiculous." He flicks my hair for emphasis.

"Right away, Mr. White," I mumble while mocking a half salute. I groan while leaving.

Work sucks for the first half of the week. I left my glasses home once unintentionally. Usually I only leave them home on fighting days. Had to lean uncomfortably close to the computer, which was probably why I needed the glasses in the first place.

On Wednesday night, I combed out the curl and spiked my hair up. I thought it looked nice. Having cleaned the jacket, I layer it over the undershirt and embark for Metropolis.

The sleazy club is full. I suppose Mr. White wasn't lying. I've got the hood down and the jacket zipped up. Making my way to the "backstage," I glance over the room to find Dr. Lane in attendance. She comes up to me, putting her hands up. Nodding towards me, I lightly jab her hands. She winces while attempting to shake away the pain. I nod back to her as I leave for the backstage. Eventually, someone takes the microphone to introduce the fight.

"Welcome to Metropolis's biggest fight of the year!" The crowd erupts into cheer. "Today, we have renowned member, the greatest of all men, the SUPERMAN!" The audience claps and whistles as I jog into the arena. Rolling up the sleeves, pulling up the hood, I finally unzip to reveal the additional logo. I hear a woman scream "I love you, Superman!" over the cheering. I take a stance and throw a few jabs. Beginning my side to side jump, I saunter towards the microphone.

"Greatest of all men?" I question "Greatest of the gods!" I toss the microphone back to the announcer. I smirk at him while he stares in disbelief. There's still an enormous uproar as fans chant. The announcer fixes himself up and prepares the other introduction.

"And the newest inductee, KRYPTONITE!" He points to the back where I can see advertisement posters. _Who the fuck is in charge of marketing? Better than Crypt Keeper, but the spelling?_ He jogs to the arena, no showboating, no costuming, just the jagged green hair.

Once the fight begins, Kryptonite just stands there, overly serious. I start with a heavy left hook, which immediately hurts my hand, and not in the 'I just hit my bare hand against someone's skull' type of pain, but immensely shocking pain. This continues, every time I swing at the man he just takes it, letting his solid body do the damage to me. The crowd is still yelling. Distinctly, there's a "C'mon, Superman!"  
I spin away to try and gain momentum on an uppercut, but Kryptonite grabs the coattail and pulls. I fall backwards. Trying to roll out, his grip does not let out so I strip myself of the jacket. With me left in the undershirt, jeans, and hand gauze, Kryptonite chuckles at my appearance. Finally, he lurches forward. With amazing form, the lands blow after blow into me. _So this is what Zod felt like._ I've taken a knee. Panting, I see him turned to the crowd. He starts his line. When he's about to perform his finisher, I roll out of the way. His elbow slams hard into ring.

Now, I haven't been beaten before, or been knocked down for that matter, but whatever Kryptonite was doing to me worked.

Immediately, he jumps up. Yet, he seems tired. My injuries start to feel devastating. He throws a punch my way, I dodge. It seems with every move he becomes slower. So, I endear. I keep moving, jumping, and bouncing until he's gasping for breath. Then I start my assault, pounding him until he's on the ground. Each hit is still near unbearable. His skin feels like it's made solely to combat my form. But, I endure; I keep fighting until the announcer steps in to call it.

Over to the side, I see someone with the hammer. I shake my head and limp out, my vision blurry, body bruised and cut. I collect my jacket and walk out. Dr. Lane is waiting for me in the back.

"Very impressive," she remarks, "I'm beginning to think your egocentrism is just part of the character." She scans my face for a reaction.

"You'd be wrong," I mutter through gritted teeth. She extends an arm to shake my hand before leaving. I attempt to raise my own but let out a quiet whimper. Biting hard on my lower lip, I raise my arm enough to shake her hand.

"Thanks for this, Kal-El," she says before walking out.

"Tell Jimmy to go fuck himself!" I yell out to her. She waves in my direction without looking as she leaves.

I keep up with the sales consultant crap until I have to return to Dr. Lane's office. Same glares from the receptionist, same outfit for myself. Once I've entered the room, she extends her arm out. Again, I nearly fail to raise my own.  
"Is the big, proud Superman injured?" she asks. "You really should to take care of yourself," she says while patting me on the back. Her tone has the same sarcastic yet sweet tinge, though it was more insulting than I assumed she wanted.  
"I thought you were supposed to help me, not be a condescending prick?" I retort. She makes a few _tsk_ noises and apologizes. Something about trying to deflate the ego. I don't really care, never was attentive in school. She asks about the next fight and if I may have problems with it, 'psychologically, as you've never felt beaten before, have you?' Bunch a load of shit.

"Next rounds against a bloke named Doomsday. No gimmicks, just a big guy with some mean punches," I explain. She rambles on about more diagnostics and treatments. I finally get to leave, collect the coat and go home.  
Soon, it's time to fight the Doomsday guy. I've only seen photos of him before the fight, but in person, this guy's a beast. For today, he created a slight gimmick. Now, he has this spiky grey hair, very intimidating for others, I'm sure. He gets introduced to the ring first. He's Jamaican, interestingly. I was sad not to see a Rastafarian get-up. Once I go up to stage, I grab the microphone. Wanting to counter Doomsday's stage presence, I fake my way through a speech.

"This is for truth," I say while pointing at myself, "justice, and the _American_ way!" The crowd cheers as a crane my neck. I balance the microphone vertically in my palm before tossing it back to the announcer. Doomsday glares in my direction, eyeing me like his prey.

Doomsday assaulted me. More so than usual. Something about his dominance felt like his whole life was leading into fighting me. The bloke wouldn't let up. I tried my best to defend, get in jabs when appropriate, but Doomsday was stronger. Every time I attempted to counter his punches, or defend, he either took the blow on the same level as Kryptonite, or countered my own moves. He wore me out, kept pummeling until I had little energy left. By this point, animalistic instincts activated. I quit form and caution and tried to overpower this monstrosity. For a long time, I've kept my full potential secret, worrying I might go far enough to kill, or, even worse, have my opponent know my maximum. To my surprise, sheer force worked. Really well. I jumped up and punched him in the jaw. We were both panting, trying to stand on either side of the ring. Then, we started approaching each other. At the same time, we put all our energy into a final right hook. They connected, knocking us both to the ground.

I don't remember much after that. Well, except for waking up in a hospital bed with news coverage of how Metropolis was shut down blaring on the TV. There was also something with four imposters trying to capitalize on my image. The robot one seemed interesting enough.

Once I was relatively well off, I was sent to a jailhouse for involvement in the fighting circuit.

"Fuck me," I mutter to myself.

Next: Multimillionaire film director Bruce Wayne reveals his newest project, "Batman," the world's next summer blockbuster.


	2. To Save The City

"Let's welcome an upcoming-big-time-Hollywood producer and director to the show, Bruce Wayne!"

"Thanks so much, it's a pleasure being on."

"Please, tell me about this project, and when can we expect to see it?" questions the interviewer.

"Well," Bruce begins, "it's a story of my own experience. Of tragedy, loss. A need to do something more that I never could. When my parents died, I wanted nothing more than revenge. I suppose this film is going to be exactly that." His words coming across perfectly to the audience, almost too calculated.

"How fascinating," the reporter claims, likely not caring. "What's the story about?"

"A hero, not unlike myself. Bold. Daring. The hero the city needed. A man who lurks in the night, ready to feed upon the villains, scum, and tyranny of the town. A silent legend. The Batman." Bruce looks off in the distance as if pondering his own words.

"A Batman?" the reporter is now intrigued. "And a vigilante, no less? How does he stop crime?"

"He works well within the law," Bruce scoffs. "The Batman is a true legend. Some don't believe he exists. Like an urban legend that haunts the night and strikes fear into his unknowing enemies. The Batman will go to most lengths to stop crime and save the city, his city, from corruption." Bruce begins to stand up from his chair, voice raised, and arm outstretched to point at the camera. "The corruption that's been here too damn long. And be damn well prepared to believe the unreal. The Batman exists, and he will punish the wrong." Bruce brushed off his suit jacket and returns to his seat, pretending to dust off his pants.

"Wow, just wow," the reporter nearly mocks. "You are very passionate, Mr. Wayne. So the rumors of this character being heavily based on you are true, then?" The reporter leans in, wanting more quotes for his exclusive interview.

"Absolutely. Every bit of fiction has some of the author in it. He's a hero, not unlike myself," Bruce repeats, his hand hanging slightly down, and eyes averted.

"Well, thank you very much for this, Mr. Wayne. It was a pleasure having you." The reporter reaches for Bruce's hand while Bruce fumbles out of his seat. They shake and Bruce rips off the microphone and walks out.

Later, Bruce drives himself home to his mansion in the newly dubbed "Batmobile," an expensive, purely for the sake of being expensive, black car. He stumbles his way to the front door.

"Master Bruce, right this way, please." Alfred reaches to grab Bruce and guide him to the living room where guests are seated.

"Not now, Alfred," Bruce grunts. "I need some drinks."

"Sir, have you been drinking?" Alfred can easily smell the liquor on Bruce's breath.

"Of course, why the hell else would I not want to talk to the beautiful ladies I'm sure you have waiting in there." Bruce stumbles more towards a walkway leading to a kitchen.

Alfred lets out a small sigh. "It's Dick Grayson, sir. The big time actor you wanted to see about your film?" Alfred calls out, unsure whether to force Bruce back or let him go. Bruce returns from the kitchen with a half empty bottle of whiskey. He continuously drinks until the bottle is empty. Alfred makes many angry gazes at him before taking the empty bottle to the recycling.

"Stop looking at me like that, Alfred. You know I'm a better negotiator when drunk," Bruce teases, lightly elbowing the old butler.

Once Alfred has fixed up Bruce's disheveled appearance and dragged him to the living room, Dick Grayson and entourage let out a sigh of relief.

"Nice home you got here, Mr. Wayne," Grayson starts while extending his arm for a handshake.

"Thank you, Mr. Grayson, glad you could come. Please, have a seat." He returns the handshake and points to a chair. Alfred hands Bruce the script that's been finished for years before the movie was announced.

"Thank you, Alfred. Now, Mr. Grayson, there's a few scenes I'd like you to try if you wouldn't mind. Specifically, there's one particular scene I need to be perfect," he overemphasizes perfect while glancing at the colored tabs in the script.

"Whatever you want to do," Grayson replies, slightly worried by the informal visit paired with an unusual try out. Bruce skims through the tabs until he finds a heavily highlighted page close to the middle of the script. Bruce hands the papers to Grayson who then looks through the notes and text.

"Alright, Mr. Grayson. You're broken down, your only love is a criminal who will betray you at any time, yet you still feel you can confide in her. You might have financial security and a passion for stopping crime, but no matter how hard you try, or how much you fight back, the villainy keeps growing," Bruce enthusiastically dictates like an overemotional actor.

Grayson is stunned by his conviction. He begins silently memorizing his lines. He coughs slightly to clear his throat. He throws himself into the delivery.

"No, you don't understand," he starts, Bruce mouthing the script in anticipation. "I can't save this damn city! No matter what, the criminals keep coming and nothing I do will stop them! My parents died and I was powerless to stop them! Even now, with everything at my disposal, I can't protect anyone. They were the last damn heroes this town had. I'm done pretending to be the hero." Grayson finishes, bowing his head in silence. Bruce begins to sob at the excellent performance. Alfred recalls being told of the same speech years earlier.

Bruce embraces Grayson, crying on his suit. He whispers to no one in particular: "I can't be a hero."

Grayson catches this and pats Bruce on the back, realizing the emotional place the script must have been written from. Bruce clears his throat and steps back, adjusting his tie and wiping his tears. "Mr. Grayson," Bruce starts excitedly, "I'd love for you to be the Batman. Deal?" He brings out his arm. Grayson shakes it. "Deal."

Bruce hashes out some more terms with Grayson's agents and tells them the paperwork will be drafted later. Once the party has left, Bruce cracks his neck and turns to Alfred. "If you need me, I'll be in the Batcave."

"Of course, sir," Alfred replies.

Bruce opens the door to his bedroom. Similar to a child's, the room is decorated by posters and memorabilia of an obsession. For him, it's concept art and designs for the film. Pictures of his vision for an onscreen Batman. There are even some physical replicas and props, most notably a mask and joined cowl hung above the bed. Bruce changes into pajamas, mostly black with some stripes of yellow, and pulls over his custom bat-logo covers. Then, he climbs into bed with a different bottle of alcohol. He opens it, creating a pleasant pop sound with the lid. Drinking heavily, he admires the ceiling art, a shadowy painting of a bat at full wingspan. After indulging himself on the rest of the bottle, he places it down on the nightstand and pick up a sketchpad and pencil. He draws at a picture similar to the one on the ceiling, but the figure in his drawing appears more aggressive.

Once finished, he reaches up and pulls down the mask. He touches it's forehead to his own, whispering "I can be a hero." He falls asleep with it still in his grip.

The following morning, Alfred is unsuccessful in his attempt to awake a hung-over Bruce. Alfred reaches for the cowl, releasing it from Bruce's clutches, securing it back firmly on the wall.

"Sir, you have another talk show appearance later today. You need to get up and dressed. Right now," Alfred says with an intentional sting in his voice.

Bruce complies and does what he's told. He wears another suit, nearly identical to the first. Alfred then takes him to the studio for the show.

"This one's not live, is it?" Bruce asks while nervously adjusting his collar.

"No, sir," Alfred says while pulling into the private parking area for the recording studio. Alfred guides Bruce to the doors where they're greeted by a few assistants. They tell Bruce to get his microphone prepped. Bruce walks out to the main stage, ready for the upcoming interview.

The beginning of the show is typical, the host asks about Bruce's life, the film, asks about the plot, and tries to pry out any new "exclusive" details. The host eventually inquires about the previous day's interview, and the sudden burst of passion included in that. Bruce explains.

"I've always had a good life. Daddy's money sort of thing. Inherited it all at a young age. Raised by the butler who was practically already raising me while my parents were out for business. They were dead and there wasn't a single thing I could've done to stop them. I always thought it was my fault. But, it's this damn city. It breeds corruption and chaos. Greed and anger dwell in the mind of every scumbag who enters the town. And that's where it really is my fault. I've done many terrible things to keep my wealth and general lifestyle. Awful things. It's because of the city. The avarice and fear. I gave into it.

"I wanted for no one to have to do that, to be perverted by the city. To have their family taken before their eyes. I want to save the city, but I can't. I can only try. My money means nothing to the criminals. My influence doesn't matter. But the Batman, that's who can stop it. In real life, a millionaire can't go around in a Batsuit assaulting men and fighting crime. The only thing that I can do is to make my ideas available to the public. And that's why this movie is so damn important to me. I need to inspire something in the people. If I can't save the city, or its inhabitants, maybe the Batman can. The film can. Give people the hope and desire to change the town, or to leave. I've always wanted to be a hero, I've pretended on numerous occasions, but now I realize I can't be. I never was. The Batman is a hero, unlike myself."

Bruce hunches over with tears starting to form in his eyes. He places his head in his hands, sobbing. The host is flabbergasted and taken aback. He can't form any more words, nor can Bruce. Bruce begins clawing at his microphone, nearly ripping the suit to remove it. Once he yanks it out, the host recovers from his stupor. He calls out, trying to get Bruce back to talk more. Bruce ignores the repeated calls of "Mr. Wayne!" He hops into the car with Alfred looking over Bruce's saddened state.

"You're early, Master Bruce." Bruce wipes at his tears, biting his lip to stop crying. He coughs, trying to regain focus.

Back home, Bruce returns to the Batcave for some time to relax. He recalls an earlier conversation he had.

* * *

"Y'know, Bruce, my lifestyle isn't so bad."

"Oh really, Selina? You think being a common thief is fun?" Bruce slams the balcony railing of his penthouse. "You're a criminal. You're part of the problem. I need to save-"

"Save the damn city. I know, I've heard. Can't you think about something else?" She says with malice.

"No," Bruce begins solemnly. "Not since my parents." He's now gripping tightly on the railing, trying to control his emotions.

"And besides, Brucey, aren't you the one with embezzlement problems? Petty crime seems so small compared to your corporate 'endeavors.'" She ghosts her hand around his chest to put emphasis on endeavors. He grunts and turns to face her.

"These people need me. I want a better life. For everyone, for me, and for you. I just don't know where to start. I can't help these people."

"That's where you're wrong. The only person you can't save is yourself, Bruce." She places a hand on his face to turn him to look at her. They share a few more words before she runs off. "I'm done pretending to be the hero," he whispers before trailing off.

* * *

Bruce falls asleep to the memory of nearly giving up. He falls asleep. Like most nights, he writhes in his sleep due to recurring nightmares. The nightmares are about evil, and saving the city. He can see the consequences of his failure. The streets overrun by criminals. Amongst the usual looting, murder, and petty crime, there exists a different kind of scum. The super villains, those who make it their mission to oppose the Batman. From the Batman's rule and control of the city, the super villains needed to take it back. Like him, they have costumes and gadgets. They usually are victorious, permanently stopping the Batman and reclaiming the city for themselves.

Like most mornings, Bruce awakes in a cold sweat after seeing himself fail. He reaches for a bottle of alcohol on the nightstand but knocks over papers while doing so. Besides the sketches, he finds a crumpled business card to a club called Metropolis. Bruce recalls the things his therapist has told him. How the people in his dreams are over-exaggerated personifications of his fears and worries.

Or even personality traits. A man who's just as cold in the inside as on the outside. A psychotic trickster who kills for fun, especially to meet an end. A large inhuman blob that can take the shape and persona of anything or person. A creature that has fully become a bat, and lost its humanity. A monster of a man who's sole purpose is to break the Batman. An entity that causes pure fear. A person whose split personality is closer worn on the outside.

Bruce dismisses this truth, claiming film makers need a good imagination. He was once questioned on why bats were so intriguing and prevalent to his subconscious. He took time before answering, putting on his general public relations charm.

"It's bats and cats. Both prey on the weak. Kill some of the innocent. However, even if they don't know it, they're doing something good for humanity as a whole. Ridding the world of disease carrying pests."

Once Grayson was officially announced and signed to star in Bruce's upcoming film, the media was in an uproar. Grayson had yet to take a role with such risk attached to it. He also went through the typical interviews, talk show appearances, and giving a quote for the copy-paste emails like he had done for his other films in the past. If there was one question he was sick of answering, it was about how emotional Bruce would be during public appearances.

"And Mr. Grayson," the journalist would start, "would you care to comment on the outbursts of Mr. Wayne?"

"He's a passionate guy," Grayson would tell them. "Honestly, he just cares a lot for what this movie means to him, and his family. I don't know what it is about the guy, I've barely spent much time with him on a personal level, but he's really acted as a father figure for me."

"How fascinating. Now, could you please tell us about the story, very briefly to not get you in trouble."

"Well, it's a human story. Good guys and bad guys. You want to root for the hero, but there's something off-putting about him. His intentions are in the right place but it's his methods that are strange."

"And who might be these bad people?"

"It's a human story. You think there would be more than one person crazy enough to dress up? They're typical criminals, with a larger crime at hand. It's very hush-hush for now."

"Alright, thank you so much. Pleased to have you, and do come back some day."

Because of the great marketing team hired by Bruce, the public hype was high for the movie. An entire worldwide premiere was set up just to show the first trailer. The majority of the cast was there, along with Bruce, Alfred, some members of the press, and 'dedicated,' meaning well paying, fans. It was similar to a red carpet event, with everyone in their nice suits or dresses. The little film clip began to play, silencing the ambient chatter in the crowd.

The shot starts on a black screen. A rich, slow, tone setting orchestral number starts to play. The camera pulls away from black, revealing the ground floor side of a skyscraper. The camera starts to pan up the side of the building as two people narrate.

"You don't think the Batman is gonna show up, right?"

"Please. You've got know that's just an urban legend. Who the hell would be dumb enough to dress up like a bat and go around punching people?"

The camera crosses the horizon of the top of the building, revealing the top. A shadowy figure is perched on the highest bit of the tower. The shot focuses on the figure, panning in closer. A gunshot is heard and then alarms sound. The music picks up speed. The figure jumps from his post, opening his wings and gliding towards the sound. Closer to the camera, his wingspan fills the shot, perfectly encapsulating his dominance. He lands, pushing the doors of a bank open. Two people look over at Batman, stunned by his presence.

"You said he wasn't real!"

A deep voice calls back: "Wrong." Batman jumps and is about to punch the first robber. The music peeks, the shot transitions to a still of the punch, and the trailer is over.

It's met with uproars and applause from the audience. They know the film will have an impact on the viewership. They realize it might actually have the potential to do what Bruce was talking about.

Bruce looks over to Alfred. Full grins on each of their faces. They continue clapping. Bruce reaches over and takes Alfred into a hug. He can now finally admit something, not only to himself, but everyone.

"The only person I can't save is myself."

* * *

Next: Through the brightest days and the blackest nights, the Green Lantern Corps will unite, even despite evil's might.


End file.
